


What's There to Say

by anticyclone



Category: Good Omens (TV), Some Like It Hot (1959)
Genre: (Jerry and Crowley switch presentations), (Jerry switches pronouns), Angst, Aziraphale and Crowley's first meeting post holy water argument, Christmas, Crossover, Eventual Happy Ending, Genderfluid Character, M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, Other, minor references to Aziraphale worrying Crowley may have been suicidal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:28:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21676786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anticyclone/pseuds/anticyclone
Summary: "Hello," Aziraphale says. His mouth is doing something knotty, warring between a frown and a rote, polite smile. He fidgets his fingers together and ends up blurting, "When did you - What are you doing here?"Crowley swirls what's left of the wine in his glass. "Fraternizing, angel," he says, lazily.Jerry and Osgood landed in London looking for an English Christmas and a few good parties. Aziraphale thought he'd meet up with an old friend, and Crowley thought he'd make some new ones. Neither of them counted on running into each other. Twice.And Crowley knows what they say about threes. They haven't had a real conversation since the argument in St. James park, but he's going to have it out with Aziraphale once and for all. Even if he has to follow the angel into a garden to do it.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Jerry "Daphne"/Osgood Fielding III
Comments: 20
Kudos: 61





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who already commented on this. I was just struck by the idea that Crowley and Jerry would get along, and then realized where 1929 would be in Crowley and Aziraphale's timeline.

When they arrive in London, Osgood insists on taking Jerry shopping. He also insists on taking Daphne shopping, but it's significantly easier to let Osgood drape her in silks and chiffon and fine wool coats than it is to be poked and prodded by a tailor. Daphne gets all new winter wear, a red cloche hat with a black feather in it, and a softer blonde wig. The wig is already set in curls.

Jerry is stuck on a platform with his hands out to either side while someone measures his arms and someone else takes more measurements of his hips than he thinks is strictly necessary. He doesn't see why he couldn't just get a suit off the rack. He'd tried saying that and Osgood had just kissed him, which is not something Jerry has managed to come up with a response to yet.

The shop brought wine out as soon as they arrived. Osgood is sipping it while reading the paper and occasionally glancing up to give Jerry a smile. The smiles are pretty much the only reason Jerry is still standing here.

"Where did you say we're headed after this?" Jerry asks. One of the tailors steps back and he tugs at his collar.

"I'd like to pop in on some friends. One of them works nearby."

"You know someone who works?" Jerry teases.

Osgood looks at him over the top of the newspaper. The headlines continue to be grim, but from what Jerry understands of the family fortune, it's been well-insulated, at least from everything but ex-wives. Mama Fielding doesn't truck with speculation.

"He owns a bookshop," Osgood says.

"You know someone who reads?" Jerry asks, both eyebrows up.

"Hush, you."

The tailors turn him around. They put him in a dark gray suit and promise Osgood that two different shades of navy (Jerry had not known there were shades of navy) and a brown are going to follow.

In the back of the car Osgood latches onto his collar and presses his mouth to Jerry's. Their very discreet, very pretty driver busies herself with adjusting the mirrors. She keeps black hair tucked under a cap and opens the door for Jerry just the same way she opens the door for Daphne. He has no idea where Osgood found her but she drives like a dream.

Now she drives them from the tailor's to Soho.

"A.Z. Fell and Company?"

"My friend Alistair, the owner."

"It says established 1800."

"I think the Fells go in for A names," Osgood says. He knocks on the door and rubs his gloved hands together. It is much colder in London in the winter than it had been in Florida, where they'd sailed out of. But Osgood wanted an English Christmas. Sugar had a whole Christmas series booked at a hotel in Miami and Joe had stayed with her. The four of them had done Christmas Eve the first week of December.

Jerry blinks at a dingy paper sign in the window. "I think it's closed," he says. "Actually, I'm not sure it's ever open."

"Alistair is here. I sent him a telegram. He just doesn't like customers," Osgood says, knocking again.

That makes absolutely no sense, but Osgood is smiling and Jerry still doesn't understand rich people even though Joe says he is one now. "Which is why you're such good friends? He knows you won't try to buy a book?"

"I thought I told you to hush."

The door swings open. Alistair's shirt is the whitest Jerry has ever seen, but his vest is beige and all his accessories are a rich brown. Except the bow tie. The bow tie is beige tartan. He has a short cloud of white blond curls that look softer than Daphne's wig and starts to say, "I'm sorry, we're very much closed," before he catches their faces. "Osgood!"

The smile that spreads over his face reminds Jerry of Sugar. It's pure, unrestrained delight, and Jerry finds himself smiling back even though Alistair hasn't looked at him yet.

"You knew I was coming, Alistair," Osgood tuts.

"Come in, come in, you'll catch your death out there," Alistair says, waving them both over the threshold. The inside of the shop is musty and dim but cozy, too. "Your telegram said you got married, Osgood, but whoever to? Am I going to get to meet her?"

And while Jerry understands that a hired driver can be discreet, he still tenses up when Osgood puts a hand on his shoulder and says, "This is Jerry. We would've been here earlier but he put up a bit of a fuss at the tailor's."

"I did not," Jerry protests.

Alistair turns that smile on him. "Well it turned out very nice, my dear," he says. He glances at Osgood and that smile turns a little mischievous. "How did you win Mama Fielding over?"

"Apparently she likes the double bass," Jerry says, after a moment. "And was always partial to the name Daphne."

"A musician! Osgood, you didn't say you married a musician."

And that's that.

Alistair is an odd man. Jerry doesn't go in much for bookshops, but he's pretty sure this one has more dust than your average and that books aren't supposed to be piled on their sides like that. He knows a lot about music and also has more alcohol than Jerry thinks most bookshops do, though, so he's pretty alright.

"Is it very difficult to cope with the current, ah, restrictions in America?" Alistair asks, handing Jerry what turns out to be Scotch so strong he has to struggle not to cough.

"I wouldn't exactly say that," Osgood says. "I have a private supply, of course. Still… tapping into the family reserves."

The look on Alistair's face suggests he knows exactly what that means, and it's not that the Fieldings had an unending and varied supply of liquor in their basement before Prohibition passed. The chair he takes across from the couch he'd ushered them onto looks like it was literally built for him. Even Jerry can tell, though, that the piece is an antique. There are faded patches on the wood varnish where Alistair sets his elbow and wrist down, and the upholstery has a few spots that seem recently repaired.

"I can tell you that I have witnessed quite a lot of … people," Alistair says. The Scotch does not affect him at all when he takes a taste. "Over the years, you know. And when the news made its way over here, I couldn't begin to imagine the law having the desired effect."

"Doesn't slow down musicians," Jerry agrees.

Alistair smiles fondly at him. "In my experience, little does."

Jerry pretends not to hear Alistair whispering to Osgood on their way out, "They're too good for you, dear boy," and he doubly pretends not to hear Osgood laugh and whisper back, "Aren't they divine?"

But he thinks about it for the rest of the day.

***

How Osgood knows so many people in London, Jerry can't imagine. They are two hours into this party and twenty minutes ago Jerry lost his new suit jacket. When he'd told Osgood this, sheepishly, Osgood smiled and told him not to worry. It would end up in the coat room before morning.

This is not the first time they've partied until sunrise. But it is the first time they've done it while Jerry's been… Jerry. At least in public.

The band here is small but packs a punch. Jerry tried crossing the room earlier and ended up spun around in several different people's arms. In retrospect that is probably when he lost his jacket. Also, he would bet his last dollar that the lady pianist and the singer in the gorgeous silver dress that he regrettably doesn't have the hips for are an item. 

Osgood rests his hand on the back of Jerry's neck. Part of Jerry wants to twist to the side and rest his head on Osgood's chest.

"Are you enjoying the party? You've barely been drinking," Osgood says.

"Compared to these people. I think they might outdrink the Society Syncopators," Jerry protests. Also, people keep telling him how much the drinks they're pouring cost in the bottle and it's making him afraid to do anything faster than sip.

"Those sweet girls?"

"You've never been on a train with them," Jerry says. He pauses. "Are you calling me sweet?"

"Always, darling." Grinning, Osgood squeezes the back of his neck. He has that sparkle in his eye that suggests he wants to kiss Jerry. And the smile that stretches over his face is the smile he wears when he is going to do other things to Jerry, later. It lights a small fire at the bottom of Jerry's gut. His face is more flushed than it should be given how little he's had to drink.

Which is another thing. "Everything's wine here, anyway," he says, leaning back into Osgood's grip. "I'm telling you, wine-drunk isn't the same as bourbon-drunk, or gin-drunk."

"Are you criticizing free alcohol?" an accented voice asks, amused.

Jerry turns in its direction. Of course every voice here is accented. He thinks he and Osgood are the only people from across the Atlantic here tonight. But this is the first person he's heard that sounds like, that sounds like… He grins. "Scottish!"

It's kind of hard to read the speaker's face, what with the sunglasses perched on her nose, but there's a slight raise of eyebrows that suggests surprise.

"Apologies." Osgood laughs. "Jerry here is still getting used to being wine-drunk."

"Hey!"

The Scottish lady has a bottle of wine in one hand and an empty glass in the other. She steps over to them and the only way Jerry can describe her walk is a slither. He blinks. No, nobody can snake in four-inch heels. Right? Not even a lady in a red dress so dark Jerry has to blink again to make sure it's not black. It is gorgeous and he's awfully sure that it would look awful on him.

She folds herself into an armchair catty-corner to the couch. It's a hideous overstuffed velvet thing. The way she sits down makes it seem like a throne. Jerry is absolutely sure that he could not sit down like that, even if he bought a red wig and a red-black dress.

"Americans," she says. "Right?"

"Guilty as charged," Osgood replies. "Osgood Fielding III."

The lady holds out a hand and raises an eyebrow again when Osgood kisses the back of it. Jerry does not do that. Jerry cannot pull that off. Jerry shakes the lady's hand and says, "Just Jerry."

She flashes a hard smile at them. It seems like her teeth are a bit sharp, which makes Jerry realize he's probably drunk more than he thought. "Just Vera."

"Have you been to America before, Vera? We came from Florida," Osgood says.

"Not recently. But I've been thinking of making a visit. I've heard it's a lucrative place to be. Even if wine isn't as big as it once was." She lifts the bottle in her hand, pointedly. Osgood produces a corkscrew and opens it for her. Vera pours herself a drink. She sips it and leans back. "I've also heard that amendment nonsense of yours hasn't stopped anyone."

"You're usually set if you know the password," Jerry says. He thinks about the last time he felt like he might get drunk under the table. "Or an all-woman band."

Something about Vera strongly suggests that she does not blink, but she does tilt her head.

"If anybody asks nobody named Jerry ever told you this, but I used to play in a speakeasy."

"And an all-woman band?" Vera asks.

"Quite impressively," Osgood cuts in, before Jerry can react. "The double bass."

There's a brief pause. All Jerry can hear is the clatter of dancers on the floor, the pianist banging her heart into the keys, the singer belting out hers.

"So," Vera says. She holds out her hand. It takes Jerry a moment to realize she's passing him her glass, and he takes it, stupidly, staring down into a red liquid reflection. Vera nods at the stage. "These people any good?"

"I like the singer," Jerry says. "And the pianist."

"They've got spunk," Osgood says.

Vera presses her lips together in a small smile. It's a lot warmer than her last one. No teeth. "You sure about that speakeasy stuff? I know some people in Chicago, I was thinking-"

"Stay clear of Chicago," Jerry blurts. "Just - Nope."

"Florida was nice," says Osgood, who should really know better.

"Louisiana," Jerry says, firmly. "New Orleans is probably all right."

"Do they like wine in New Orleans?" Vera asks.

It finally clicks that she was offering him a taste, so Jerry sips it. There is nothing he could say about it that would approach smart, so he hands it off to Osgood. Osgood immediately rattles off a description of undertones and hidden notes and things Jerry is skeptical could even exist in a single gulp of something, but all right. And then he adds, "I think New Orleans would like _that_ wine."

That makes Vera laugh.

Vera stays until the bottle of wine is empty and then the party swallows her up. Jerry sort of regrets it. Around two o'clock there's a big fight. Somebody who looks like he's been drunk for several days gets the bright idea to play the piano while the pianist is still at it. The singer whirls around. She clocks the jerk with a left hook and he falls off the stage like a brick. Jerry thinks Vera would've been impressed. He's impressed, or at least he's impressed until the person the jerk fell on decides he wants to throw a left hook, too. His is not nearly as good or as well-aimed as the singer's.

Osgood is the kind of guy who'll stare at a fight and not expect it to turn in his direction no matter what. Jerry latches onto his wrist and pulls him, protesting, all the way out the front door.

They're in the cab back to the hotel when it hits him. Groaning, he slides down in his seat. "I left my jacket!"

"We'll just have to go back and get it tomorrow night." Osgood pats his knee. "I'm sure the fight will have died down by then."

***

Crowley strolls up to the house the next night in slacks and a jacket. He didn't bother with a coat, but he does have a red scarf tucked around his neck.

The Bentley is likewise tucked on a side street. No drunken party-goers swerving home at half past dawn are going to crash into it. Crowley snaps his fingers and the back garden gate swings open ahead of him. Then he sticks his hands in his pockets, because he may have deliberately decided not to bring a coat, but it is cold and he is a snake. Cold bites. Not in the fun way.

Walking up the back way gives him a good view of the house. All the lights are on except in a few significant windows on the top floor. Crowley makes a mental note to sneak into them later. Just on principle.

It's cold enough that he doesn't pass anybody in the garden. That'll change when they get enough drink in them. Except, upon further inspection, there is a figure outside the ballroom. Crowley steers towards it.

The woman hovering outside the door looks a bit lost. Crowley gets closer and does a slight double-take behind his glasses. Ah. Not lost. Just bracing herself, watching the party through the glass. She doesn't have a coat on, either, but she's definitely human. Must have slipped outside to smoke. There are a lot of people inside. More than could've been on the guest list. The music roars and through the windows everyone glitters under chandelier-fractured light.

He walks up to the woman's side, clearing his throat when he's a few steps away. She flinches and turns, mouth opening to scold him, probably, but when he tilts his head at her she hesitates. Soft blonde curls frame her face. A navy headband with a diamond brooch keeps everything pinned in place and matching diamonds drip from her ears.

"Nice dress," Crowley says.

It is a nice dress. It's dark blue and swishes around her calves. She blinks at him, still hesitating. Crowley deliberately presses his lips together in a small smile. She blinks again and asks, tentative, "...Vera?"

"Jerry," he says, offering his arm.

"Daphne," she corrects, taking it.

"Anthony."

She gives him an appraising once over. He holds still for it and is rewarded with, "Nice suit."

"Thanks."

"No accent?"

Crowley laughs. "A better one than you have. Osgood already inside?" he guesses. Daphne nods and he grins, tugging her up against him. In heels she is as tall as him, which is fun, because it means he barely has to lean over to murmur in her ear, "Want to make him jealous?"

Her mouth opens and shuts and then she giggles, swatting at his arm. "You devil."

"You don't know the half of it."

***

"Okay," Daphne says. She is very drunk. "Okay."

All three of them are on a couch that was empty because Crowley had wanted it to be. There are people sitting on the floor in some parts of this party, but Crowley isn't going to be one of them. One of Daphne's long legs is tossed over Crowley's lap, and her back rests against Osgood's side. The hem of Daphne's dress slid up above her knee when she'd raised her leg to stretch it out. Osgood doesn't look displeased about this development.

Neither of them look displeased when Crowley experimentally settles one hand on Daphne's leg, either.

"Okay," Daphne says, the corner of her mouth quirking. When she lifts her eyes and peers at Crowley through her lashes, carefully applied, lush things, he decides to inch his hand up a little further, toward her knee. It makes her face go bright pink underneath the rest of her makeup. She giggles. "Don't distract me!"

"Distract you from what?" Crowley glances over at Osgood, who's sipping champagne from the glass he'd grabbed on their way over here.

Osgood smiles at him. Huh. Don't either of these people get jealous about anything?

"I was going to ask - _Anthony!_ \- I was going to ask, how did you get that long wig in just your color? For Vera?"

The exclamation of his name is reward for stroking his thumb along the underside of Daphne's knee. Crowley watches Osgood reach up to put a hand on Daphne's shoulder and says, "That old thing? Shop's closed down, I'm afraid. You don't need a new one, anyway, you look just fine."

And she does. Crowley can feel jealousy starting to simmer in other pockets of the room. He regrets that hemlines are already lengthening, because Daphne does look good with her dress up around her knee. She looks good with Osgood's hand on her bare shoulder and Crowley's hand on her knee. Crowley casts a lazy glance out at the crowd and smiles at a woman glaring daggers at Daphne, in a shiny black dress that nearly but not quite matches Daphne's own.

The woman looks at him and bites down on a dark-lipsticked mouth. Crowley returns the stare for long enough that he can feel her jealousy wane even from over here, in favor of a tiny flicker of triumph. Then he very deliberately turns back to Daphne.

The spike of indignation from the lady in the not-quite-as-pretty black dress makes him want to laugh. She actually turns her nose up when she whirls around and stomps off into the crowd.

She disappears in the direction of the stage, which gives Crowley an idea. He delicately siphons some of the alcohol out of Daphne's system. Just enough that the edges of her words don't slur anymore and her hands are steadier. Not enough for her to be confused about it.

Less than an hour after that, Crowley has Tempted the band's double bass player into abandoning her gig for the night. It turns out that if you have three kids and a job that keeps you out all night, what you actually Desire is an undisturbed nap in an infernally soundproof room the hosts of the party were sure they'd locked. Crowley doesn't even miracle the door open, just picks it with one of the double bass player's hairpins. He feels like she would be impressed if she wasn't already half-asleep as she tumbled into the guest bed.

He locks the door behind him. And he miracles it out of the hosts' attention for the next twelve hours. If there is a human desire Crowley can respect, it's the need for a decent nap.

By the time he gets downstairs Daphne is already on stage. He snakes through the mass of dancers until he finds Osgood. Sitting at the edge of the stage, the man is watching his spouse with what Crowley can only term 'open adoration' on his face.

It's an expression Crowley recognizes instantly, and instantly hates himself for recognizing.

"Oh!" Osgood blinks when he spots Crowley slouching (definitely not sulking) in a shadow against the wall. He pats the empty chair next to him. He says, without a trace of reproach, "We thought you would be upstairs with the lovely lady for longer."

"I did not go upstairs with the bass player," Crowley drawls, because he is not willing to let that _for longer_ pass completely by.

He turns the chair around before he sits in it so he can fold his arms along its back and rest his chin against them. Makes a dismissive sound when Osgood holds out his own glass of wine as an offering. Osgood shrugs and takes a sip.

On stage, Daphne is playing admirably along with the band. The singer keeps throwing her amused looks from the seat she's taken on the edge of the piano. The pianist and the saxophone player look less impressed but Crowley can tell the simmer of resentment is mostly directed at their regular bandmate. Who, to be fair, did desert them in favor of sleeping.

More importantly, not-quite-as-pretty-black-dress and her friends are working themselves into a lather over Daphne being literally in the spotlight.

Crowley tucks that into himself. And flashes just enough eye, over top of his glasses, to wink when they look his way.

"You know Anthony, we were hoping to move the party to the penthouse tomorrow night. Daphne would love for you to make an appearance if we can tempt you away from the live music."

This is the third night in a row this mansion has hosted pretty much the same crowd. The irritation, exhaustion, and now, jealousy, floating out over the dance floor is good enough to make Crowley's eyes settle half-closed behind his glasses. But there's only so much to tap for in one group of humans, and this group is beginning to get boring. Maybe the people at Osgood's will be more interesting. There might be some politicians. Or, if Crowley is lucky, some advertising executives.

Daphne catches them watching her and grins.

Crowley doesn't look over to see the answering expression on Osgood's face. "Sure," he says. "Should I bring some wine?"

***

A couple of days after Osgood arrives in London, the papers start rumbling with the expectation of snow. One of the columns even suggests that they'll be having snow for Christmas. Aziraphale gives the sky a suspicious look as he leaves the bookshop for the second time that day. If it is going to snow anytime soon he should stock up on refreshments.

After a few steps, he turns around and goes back into the shop for a scarf.

He hadn't worn one that morning, when he'd gone out for breakfast and picked those newspapers up on his way back. Truth be told he doesn't read the paper most of the time. Not for weather. It's just been a while since he's filed a report to Heaven. He had been looking for any news that might suggest evi… chaotic doings in London.

Cold air hits him in the face when he locks the shop door again. He breathes it in and his corporeal lungs protest.

It is probably his imagination but he feels like the scarf was a good decision, on the long walk to the cafe he has in mind. They have excellent pastry and usually aren't picked clean even by lunch time.

When Aziraphale steps inside he spots Osgood in the corner. The man is reading one of the same newspapers Aziraphale had bought for himself that morning. There are two empty chairs across from him and but just one extra coffee cup.

"Alistair." Osgood waves Aziraphale over. "Are you here for breakfast too?"

It is slightly after noon. Aziraphale generally prefers to take his breakfast at 8 am. He can almost always get a seat at most of the cafes because workers are too busy on their commutes and the families are still at home. For his part Osgood looks perfectly fine for someone who was up so late that midday is breakfast time.

"I'm just here for some cakes to take home for tea," Aziraphale says.

"Stay to say hello to Daphne, at least."

At the counter stands a blonde woman in a lovely moss-green dress and a matching sweater with pearl buttons. She finishes placing an order and her face lights up when she notices Aziraphale standing next to Osgood. It's a now-familiar smile and Aziraphale answers it with one of his own.

"Nice to see you again, Daphne," he says. He pulls her chair out for her.

She raises her eyebrows and gives Osgood a very specific look which makes Osgood look up, as if for deliverance. Aziraphale almost laughs. As she takes the seat, she says, "It's good to see you too, Alistair. Are you going to stay with us for lunch?"

"Breakfast."

"They stopped serving breakfast over an hour ago," Daphne tuts. "I ordered lunch. Soup and sandwiches."

"They do a marvelous potato soup here," Aziraphale says.

Outnumbered, Osgood folds his paper away. "We'll just have the hotel deliver breakfast for the party tonight," he declares. He pauses and then says, "You should join us."

"The last time I went to one of your parties, Osgood," Aziraphale says, "I lost a very precious copy of _Cain._ "

"Sold it to me fair and square. I even paid the outrageous price you were asking. And you upped it when you got into that last bottle, you know."

Aziraphale looks at Daphne, who's sipping her coffee with an air of amusement. "Mama Fielding has a liking for Lord Byron, it seems," he says. "Your husband refused the offer to return his money. I was even going to give extra for the trouble."

Osgood puts an elbow on the table and rests his chin in his hand. "I know you don't miss that old thing, Alistair. You talk about Byron like he personally offended you."

"Hmm." Aziraphale is not going to comment on that.

"You should come to the party," Daphne declares. It's not an invitation. Aziraphale blinks, and she gives him the delicate smile of a politician. Aziraphale would know. Then she glances at Osgood and her expression quirks into something more devilish. "We still need a Christmas gift to send Mama Fielding."

Aziraphale also knows that kind of grin, and it makes something in his chest hurt.

"I don't think I have anything appropriate in stock," he says, quietly, pulling a practiced smile onto his face. "But I think I could make time for a party. Should I bring wine?"

***

The temperature dipped since last night. The newspapers are even promising snow soon. Since Crowley has to wear a coat, he's wears what is currently his favorite coat: a long black wool thing, nipped at the waist, with black fur at his throat and wrists.

There is a coat check set up outside the penthouse suite. Judging from the number already hung up, Crowley has arrived fashionably late after all. The bellhop gulps when he helps Crowley out of his coat. His accent is Scottish, too, like Vera's. Smirking, Crowley lets their fingers brush as he takes the coat check tag and tucks it into a pocket. All of Crowley's dresses, even gauzy black numbers like this one, have pockets. Or they do by the time he reaches down to tuck something into them.

Daphne greets him with a kiss to his cheek. "Vera, you look terrific."

"Yes, I know," Crowley says, which makes Daphne laugh. He holds up the bottle of champagne he'd ended up bringing, to placate his hosts' American palates. "Ice?"

They leave the champagne on a with the rest of the drinks. Daphne curls her arm through his and walks him around to meet the other guests. There aren't too many. Osgood may have rented out the penthouse suite but it's still only so large.

No politicians and no advertising executives, but Crowley does get to have a drink with a man from the Underground Electric Railways Company of London.

"Between you and me," the man says, in the tone of someone who has already confided this in a dozen other people, "this government buy-out is nothing but positive for UERL. Handles our financial issues for the moment, leaves our Board in control."

"In my experience, the government only buys things it ends up controlling," Crowley replies, dryly.

"Gives me time to get my money out on top. And it'll finally kill the pirates," the man says, scowling. "Scoundrels to the last driver."

"Mmm," says Crowley, who gleefully leaves the Bentley safe at home at least once a week to ride the pirate bus lines.

If they die out he will truly miss them - he's especially fond of Edgar and Bessie, who regularly touch the sign up on the side of their rickety machine to appear gleaming new and just like a regulated General bus. Of course Crowley has never actually paid the doubled fare they request once a passenger is on board and the bus is moving again, but he likes watching other people do it.

Increasing regulation and aggressive purchasing of pirate buses feels like being thwarted. Although he never contributed much beyond spreading the word about his favorite drivers several decades back, when there were more of them. This was a human invention, not demonic, and he's positive there isn't actually angelic involvement in any of the decline.

Just men like this, drinking too much port and complaining, "Clogging up the street. And the speeds they take! As if they're racing the real buses."

"I quite like the speed."

The UERL man appears taken aback by a pretty lady disagreeing with him. He tries to course correct. "If you like speed, you have to get out of the city in a car. Public transport just isn't built for it. I myself have a-"

But Crowley is spared from hearing about what kind of car he has, because Daphne's tugging at his elbow. "Sorry, I simply _must_ borrow Vera," she says, breezily. And, when they're out of the man's hearing, "If you let him start gabbing to you about his car, he'll end up offering to drive you to Scotland."

"Is it a nice car?"

Daphne giggles. "Why, are you hoping to drive it?"

"I've got my own." Crowley shrugs. "What am I being borrowed for?"

"Alcohol. Osgood has this friend, odd sort of man, but he brought what he says is a good wine."

"I do like wine."

The wine is on a table and Osgood and the friend are off in the crowd somewhere. Or went back out to coat check? Daphne isn't sure, but she pours Crowley a glass of what turns out to be a decent vintage. It sits smooth and rich on Crowley's tongue. 

Daphne settles them on a loveseat because her shoes are pinching. Crowley is thinking about finishing his drink and going to pester the UERL man for pirate-busting techniques he can warn Edgar and Bessie about.

Then the door opens and shuts.

Crowley looks over to see that Osgood is walking with his friend, his hand settled between his friend's shoulders, their heads bowed together. Osgood is speaking in a low voice and his friend is laughing. It lights up both their faces because it is a sound of pure joy. Even though Osgood is still in the middle of whatever it is he's talking about, his eyes are sparkling like he's the one laughing.

For an infinitesimally brief moment Crowley considers throwing his glass against the wall hard enough to shatter it.

Then Aziraphale glances up. The laughter slips off his face. He looks lost.

"Oh! Over here!" Daphne waves.

Osgood pushes Aziraphale over and Crowley knows that walk, it's Aziraphale trying and failing to dig his heels in because he can't find an excuse to do so. Crowley allows himself to settle back against the loveseat.

Osgood says, "Daphne's managed to pin Vera down - Alistair, Vera, Vera, Alistair."

"Hullo," Crowley says.

"Hello," Aziraphale answers. His mouth is doing something knotty, warring between a frown and a rote, polite smile. He fidgets his fingers together and ends up blurting, "When did you - What are you doing here?"

Crowley swirls what's left of the wine in his glass. "Fraternizing, angel," he says, lazily.

The tips of Aziraphale's ears turn red. His hands go still.

"How do you and Vera know each other?" Osgood asks.

It's a question they've been asked by humans before. Usually, they've had some opportunity to touch base beforehand and have an answer prepared. But the past sixty-odd years have been free of bases and free of touching. There is no story to draw on tonight. One of them will have to think of something.

Crowley meets Aziraphale's eyes and lets him flounder. He crosses his legs at the knee, so his hemline spills over and lays bare an inch of thigh.

Aziraphale looks away. "Our families know each other," he says, weakly.

"Don't really get along," Crowley adds. He ignores the flash of blue eyes that nets him. That is by far the worst excuse Aziraphale has ever come up with. Suddenly Crowley doesn't want any more wine.

Daphne, significantly more observant than Osgood, clears her throat. "You should introduce Alistair to Virginia, she's over-"

"Ah, yes, I see her," Osgood says. His tone suggests he hasn't caught why he's being sent off but is happy to accept that his wife thinks it's necessary. He wheels Aziraphale away.

Crowley sets his glass down on an end table and starts to get to his feet, but Daphne puts a hand on his shoulder.

"Alistair is not the kind of man I would have imagined…"

"For good reason."

"He is … kind?"

Of course he is. Of course. Aziraphale is so kind he'll cut you with it. Crowley shakes off Daphne's touch and successfully stands up. "It's nothing. I should get going."

"You can't leave yet," Daphne insists. "Come on, it's a big party. You won't have to talk to him again."

Crowley walks toward the door and Daphne follows, asking him to stay twice more before he agrees. Fine. He winds his way back to the UERL man and asks about that car. Two minutes in and he knows it's not as good as the Bentley, but the man is animated. So when Crowley feels the celestial weight of Aziraphale trying to subtly watch them from the other side of the room, he can drape his wrist over the man's shoulder and get a fizz of open lust in response.

He knows Aziraphale can't _feel_ that, but surely he can see the way the man is now looking at Crowley.

As soon as that brush of divine attention is past - Aziraphale only lasts a moment before turning away, or fleeing entirely, Crowley doesn't care - Crowley drops his hand. "Time for me to turn in."

"Must you?" the man asks, startled. And then begs, only a little bit of a whine in his voice, "I could drive you to your place. If you need a ride."

"I've got one of my own."

***

Just before the lift doors close, Aziraphale slides through them. He smiles at the operator while Crowley scowls. From the glazed look on the man's face, it's obvious that he's not about to overhear anything said before the lift reaches the ground floor.

"Inserting yourself where you aren't needed," Crowley mutters, when Aziraphale turns to him, smile fading.

"I wasn't expecting to see you. I haven't heard anything." A floor ticks by. Aziraphale glances at the count, appears to do some mental math about how much time he has left to bother Crowley, and takes a bracing breath. He has the gall to ask, "How have y… What have you been doing?"

Two more floors pass by while Crowley reels from that question. He pushes his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose. He has to breathe in before his corporation will cooperate and let him say, thinly, another floor already gone, "Nothing that needs divine intervention. Don't you worry about me."

"Crowley," Aziraphale murmurs. His mouth is downturned and that lost expression is back. He doesn't have a coat on, he must have been hovering around somewhere. Waiting for a chance to catch Crowley alone where it wouldn't be witnessed. "You know that I keep an ear to the ground. It's just that I haven't had any news, and I thought. I thought, perhaps, something had happened. That you might have done something to yourse…"

Crowley's hands feel hot. The edges of his vision go dark, for a second.

Several more floors burn past while Aziraphale trips over his words.

"Angel," Crowley purrs, for the simple satisfaction of seeing it catch Aziraphale in place. Crowley inhales and tastes cologne, past his perfume. "That wasn't a request. Don't you bloody _dare_ worry about me."

They're at the ground floor now.

The lift operator opens the doors while looking a little confused about why he's doing so. There's no one waiting to come in. Crowley stalks out of the lobby and all the way to the Bentley without looking over his shoulder once. No sound of footsteps follows him. Only late evening passerby, taxis and other cars.

The steering wheel lets out a groan of protest when he yanks the car into traffic, but he glares it into silence.


	2. Chapter 2

The next day Jerry wakes up early. He uses cold cream to get the rest of the makeup off his face and pulls on a sweater and slacks. According to the paper dropped at their door, it's going to be cold today. Daphne's winter coat is nice, but he still doesn't want to wear a dress out in this.

He scribbles a note for Osgood.

Last night there had been one coat left behind. Jerry drapes it over his arm. It isn't until he's getting into a cab that he realizes he doesn't know the address of the bookshop. Or whether Alistair would even be there today. It is only a few days til Christmas, after all.

He says, "Sorry. I'm not from here. There's this bookshop. In, um, Soho."

"Bookshop, sure." The driver squints in the rearview mirror. "Let me know when I'm close."

Jerry folds the coat in his lap. The cab winds its way through the city. He's starting to think that he should've woken Osgood up after all when they take a turn and all the streets suddenly look familiar. A few blocks later, he's being let out in front of the shop. Which looks even more closed than the other day.

He presses his face to the window and can only see dim and dust. But he did ride all the way over here and he does have the man's coat, so. He has to knock three separate times and is starting to think he wasted a trip when the door opens.

"Jerry, what - Oh!" Relief flits over Alistair's face. "My dear fellow, thank you."

Alistair ushers him inside. It is only marginally warmer than outside, but maybe the heat all just… rushed out when the door was open? And it's an old building. The back of the shop is warmer. Jerry thinks about mentioning that maybe there would be more customers if the heat was better in the entryway, but it's not really his place.

There would also probably be more customers if the door was open. And Alistair, whatever his quirks, doesn't need Jerry's advice to use a lock.

_Rich people,_ he thinks. He should call Sugar this later, once it's a reasonable hour in Miami.

"Something came up last night and I rushed off. I know it was rude, I'm terribly sorry. It was kind of you to come all this way."

"No problem, really."

Then Jerry hesitates. Alistair appears not to notice. He's gone on to talking about tea and whether Jerry would like any, being American and all, although an answer is apparently not required. In the next minute Jerry has a cup of tea in his hands, already mixed with cream and sugar.

"Thanks." Jerry even takes a long drink of the tea. How can he not, after that? Also, taking a drink means Alistair is already sitting down when he says, "So. Um. If we'd known you were on the outs with Vera, we never would've introduced you like that."

"Please don't…" Alistair swallows. Sets his tea down. "Don't mention a thing. You couldn't have known."

Jerry isn't sure what to do with his hands. This teacup is so small. "Vera was, um."

"Livid?" Alistair guesses.

"She looked sad."

Alistair links his hands together and rests them in his lap. Now _he_ looks sad, and Jerry feels like he kicked a puppy on its birthday.

"Sorry. I shouldn't have - My buddy Joe always says I'm butting in where I shouldn't." Jerry sits up at the look on Alistair's face and heads off that reaction at the pass. "Don't get me wrong. Joe, we've known each other forever. He's gotten me into more scrapes over the years than I can count. But he's gotten me out of more, too. We just knock heads sometimes."

Alistair seems to take this as a comment on whatever it is that he's got going on, or had going on, with Vera. Which Jerry hadn't meant to do. Alistair's response makes him feel even worse.

"I'm afraid there's a fundamental difference between Vera and myself that cannot be reconciled. And she takes risks I simply cannot… Well."

Jerry thinks about that thing Vera said, about her family and Alistair's not getting along. There's probably a hundred things that could mean.

There's one thing he can do that shouldn't instantly backfire. "Uh. We got invited to a Christmas Eve eve thing tomorrow, if you… There's gonna be carollers, the works. And crackers? I don't know why everybody's so excited about snacks but they kept going on about them."

"Perhaps. Christmas is busy for me," Alistair tells him, which Jerry guesses makes sense. People need gifts, right? But when he leaves a few minutes later, the sign in the door definitely says _Closed._

Rich people.

At least he returned the coat. And the sky's gotten overcast but there's already a cab outside the shop. He watches London go by through the window, thinks about Vera and Alistair, and sighs. Tonight he'll call Sugar. Then Mama Fielding.

***

Crowley _loves_ Christmas parties.

Every Christmas party Crowley's ever attended has been a seething mass of family resentments, attempting to skip out early, attempting to stop other people from skipping our early, and at least one tasteless gag gift or punch spiked out of proportion. The drinks are usually good - except for that punch - and Crowley can walk away with a holiday bonus tacked onto all soul tarnishing.

This actually says more about the type of party Crowley gets invited to than it does about Christmas, but every time Aziraphale's tried to tell him that, Crowley tells Aziraphale he's not getting invited to the right parties.

Tonight is a Christmas Eve eve party. Crowley has big plans for tomorrow night involving fireworks and a pantomime, but tonight there's no nuts-and-bolts work to attend to. He can kick back. So far he has replaced a random assortment of Christmas crackers with ones he made himself. His jokes are better.

Also, he opened one of the ones he stole and is already wearing the paper crown even though it fits awkwardly over his fascinator. But nobody says a word to him about it. The spikes on the crowns he cut out himself are highly suggestive and he's looking forward to people either being too drunk to realize or trying to find an excuse to shred the crowns in their laps before anyone notices.

"Look who it is," he says, an hour or so into the party, after the mischief's been laid out.

Jerry laughs when Crowley walks up behind him and places the crown on his head. "Vera, they said we were supposed to open those things at dinner."

Crowley drapes both arms over his shoulders. Smirks. "I don't wait to open presents."

"I thought crackers meant the food," Jerry confides in a voice that is not at all a whisper and definitely tinged with wassail. "Nice dress."

Jerry is a much better dancer than he is. But Crowley's got spirit, he doesn't need technique.

Jerry leads Crowley in what he thinks is a foxtrot across the dance floor until they're both laughing and draped against a wall of windows that leads to the back garden. People who throw these kinds of parties always have a back garden. It's a great place to make mistakes. The windows are cool against their backs and cast back a darkened reflection of the ballroom. Impossible to see out, unless Crowley were to press his face to the glass.

"Aren't you cold?"

"Nah," Crowley says. "Don't get cold."

Jerry says something that might be, "You should try Chicago in February," but Crowley's choosing to ignore that challenge. Then Jerry makes a sound under his breath and closes his hand over Crowley's wrist, which seems odd until Crowley realizes it's to keep him still while Jerry tells him, "Uh. So. Alistair is here."

"Ugh." He lets his head thump against the window.

"I didn't know you were coming or I wouldn't have invited him."

"Probably trying to break into the library," Crowley mutters. "Also, why are you inviting people to a party you aren't throwing?"

"Do _you_ know the hosts?"

Crowley makes something like a growl in the back of his throat. Jerry raises one eyebrow at him. He thumps his head against the window again. Not knowing the hosts is key to getting away with as much as possible. If nobody knows where you came from, nobody can follow you home.

"I, uh. Anyway. I invited him because…" Jerry makes a face. "I had to return his coat the morning after the party. He seemed kinda." Another face, and Crowley is not interested in whatever synonyms Jerry flips through to arrive at, "Sad."

Crowley touches two fingers to the edge of his sunglasses.

Jerry lets go of him. He looks like he's thinking of saying something else but bites it back, which is good because there is nothing else Crowley wants to hear about _Alistair._ Jerry raps his knuckles on the window. "Guess it's snowing after all."

"I need something to drink," Crowley says.

***

Aziraphale _loves_ Christmas parties.

Every Christmas party Aziraphale's ever attended has been suffused with a cloud of generosity, anticipation for the holiday, joy at such a warm and light-filled celebration in the dark of winter, and at least one act of genuine kindness that both the giver and receiver will carry for ages. The drinks are usually good - except for the punch - and Aziraphale can report to Heaven that the Christmas season continues to spread goodwill to humankind.

This actually says more about Aziraphale than it does about Christmas, but every time Crowley's tried to tell him that, Aziraphale ignores him.

Tonight is a Christmas Eve eve party. Convincing himself to leave the house had taken three false starts, but eventually he had managed it. Aziraphale does love Christmas parties, and he is hoping that this one will lift his spirits. He is still feeling entirely out of sorts after the other evening. And the … the conversation in the lift.

He took a cab to get here because there is no bus that goes into this particular neighborhood. All of the houses are decked out for the holiday and shimmer with twinkling white lights. The manor at the address Jerry gave him is no different. The driver had looked a little skeptical that Aziraphale was walking up to a house like this, and so had the doorman, but Aziraphale had only had to mention Osgood to be waved inside.

Which is fortunate because it takes him over half an hour just to locate Osgood.

"I'm not sure this is my kind of party," he says, shaking his head.

"You just need to wait for the holiday trappings." Osgood gestures at a group of people entering the ballroom.

They're dressed in what everyone here would refer to as vintage and what Aziraphale would refer to as costume, because he still owns things from seventy-five years ago and remembers fine what women's fashion looked like. But the carollers in their cloaks and top hats and gloves do make a pretty picture. The host even hired a photographer to take some. They begin with 'The angel Gabriel from heaven came,'[1] which is not one of Aziraphale's favorites.

It must show on his face because Osgood says, "They'll probably do 'Jingle Bells' later."

"I'm partial to 'Jesus Christ the Apple Tree,' myself."[2]

"I like the ones you can dance to," says Osgood.

"Of course everyone has their favorites," Aziraphale comments, carefully sidestepping the issue. The few times he's been asked to fill in a spot in the Heavenly choir, he's kept his hands firmly locked behind his back. And no one had even considered moving their feet.

Other people are enjoying the music. Aziraphale is content to watch. Or he is until he spots Jerry, and then his stomach drops.

Jerry is in a dark blue suit. His jacket is open, so it moves when he dances. The ballroom lights catch on his vest buttons and the exposed chain of his pocketwatch. Under his hands is a figure in a red velvet gown. Jerry and his partner cut a path across the dance floor so quickly that the gown's twirling hemline blurs in Aziraphale's vision. But it's not as if Aziraphale has ever needed to look twice spot Crowley from across a room.

Seeing the demon twice in as many days is almost more than Aziraphale can take, after nearly seventy years without.

"Do you need to sit down?" Osgood asks.

Aziraphale turns to him. The look on the man's face makes him wonder just how long he's been staring. There's a different song going now, anyway. The carollers are quiet while the band plays.

Osgood squints at him a bit. "Don't like to pry, of course, but… ex-spouse?"

Something about having his feet rooted to the ground makes it difficult to speak. Aziraphale's lips are parted, but he can't make himself say anything in response.

"The first one's the hardest," Osgood assures him. "The first time I ran into my first ex-wife, let me tell you. Ended up with the band on the yacht. Unfortunately the party came with, which meant her, too, and of course she knew where all the good liquor was hidden."

"Ex-spouse," Aziraphale manages, at last. It feels like his vocal cords are not all a part of him.

"I don't think we can convince half the party to leave with us. But there is a smoking room set up, if you want to avoid Vera."

"Vera smokes."

"Ah. Jerry doesn't. Part of why Mama took to him so well."

It feels rather like the ballroom floor has slanted underneath him. They haven't moved a step, but somehow Jerry and Crowley are closer. Arm-in-arm, swaying as they walk (that's all Crowley). The lights make the dark lenses of Crowley's glasses look gold. Aziraphale is aware that he's been spoken to and some part of him is able to answer, "I suppose that's lucky."

Osgood plucks drinks from a passing waiter and offers one to Aziraphale, but Aziraphale can't raise his hand to accept. "Ex-husband sounds even worse than ex-wife, though," Osgood admits, his voice just a shade quieter. "Can't think I ever noticed that before."

Aziraphale says, "Hmm."

"That was thoughtless of me, wasn't it?"

"I didn't… I didn't say," Aziraphale starts.

The moment that Jerry registers his presence next to Osgood, it's too late. Jerry blinks and puts both his feet down, but Crowley keeps moving. Crowley walking forward is stronger than most other forces on the planet. 

Aziraphale doesn't remember Crowley's hips being exactly this distracting, and he tries to look elsewhere. But at Crowley's wrist is a now-old-fashioned enameled snake bangle. Black on top and glazed with red underneath with rubies for eyes. Aziraphale had been there when Crowley bought that thing. He knows Crowley paid actual money for it (even if Crowley had not come into that money honestly, it had ended up in the jeweler's hand).

Crowley takes the extra glass from Osgood. Light glints off the rubies at his wrist. This close, the glare effect on his glasses is gone, so the lenses just look black.

"I think Vera wants to keep dancing," Jerry says. He is slightly out of breath and also looking firmly at his husband.

The corner of Crowley's mouth turns up. "Alistair doesn't dance."

Which is not true. The music isn't right for it, but if it was, Aziraphale _could_ dance. He's learned.

But Crowley wouldn't know that.

"I think I need some fresh air," Aziraphale says. He turns to vanish through the nearest doorway.

***

"Vera…" Jerry says.

Crowley flicks his free hand dismissively. Across the room there is a coincidental cascade of glass, champagne, and shrieks. They all turn to stare. Jerry blinks, Osgood smothers a startled laugh, and Crowley grinds his teeth. Anyone who builds a champagne tower is asking for trouble.

He gives his own drink to Jerry, who takes it with some confusion. Then he takes the half-empty glass from Osgood's hand and gives it to Jerry too. "I'm sure Osgood will dance with me if you're worn out, Jerry."

Osgood accepts, because, "You know me, sugar plum, I can always dance one more."

Crowley is shaken out of his irritation long enough to marvel at someone using 'sugar plum' in earnest. Jerry's nose wrinkles, but it's like he's holding back a smile. Then Osgood has a hand at Crowley's hip and another on his shoulder and the two of them are dancing to a song that is not about the Archangel Gabriel. A demon has limits.

One of them is apparently when a human looks at him and says, "There's nothing as terrible as running into an ex-spouse."

Years of practice being lead around a dance floor keeps Crowley from tripping.

"Can't let it get the best of us," Osgood continues, oblivious. He is a spectacular dancer. He has to be, because Crowley has no attention to spare for remembering a single step. "I've got seven - eight? no, I think it's seven - ex-wives myself. Nice girls, the lot of them, but I'm not keen to add an eighth. Or a ninth."

"Ex-spousse," Crowley says, trying too late to swallow the hiss.

"If it is any consolation, the sight of you struck Alistair speechless."

"It's _not._ "

"All right," Osgood says, tolerantly.

At the end of that number Crowley lets someone else sweep him up. He doesn't realize until his hand is already taken that it's the man from the UERL. It's hard to dance to this song but the man is making an effort of it. Crowley wonders about causing one of the candles hiss and pop and maybe set some of the decorative ivy on fire.

"About that drive," the man says, his hand sliding to Crowley's back. Since Crowley's dress doesn't have much of one itself, it means there's a hand on his bare skin.

"I never said anything about a drive," Crowley says. "I said I had my own ride."

"Yes, but for speed."

"Got plenty of that."

It turns out that men who work for the UERL board and brag about substandard cars don't like it when their dance partners give _them_ a dizzying spin. Crowley is freed a moment later and is already devising a plan to make official bus stops look closed and redirect pedestrians to pirate bus corners. It's going to involve paint. He'll need to get an authoritative-looking jacket.

By now he's traveled the length of the ballroom. The wall of windows leading to the garden is on his right. The carollers go from 'Here We Come A-wassailing,' which could honestly be worse, into 'Jesus Christ the Apple Tree.' Someone must have put in a damn request for it because Crowley tries to radiate a precise forgetfulness field during the entire Christmas season. It couldn't be that he was so distracted he forgot.

People are going to get impatient for dinner and start opening their crackers soon, but he decides he doesn't need to witness it as much as he needs to not be listening to poorly written songs.

The air bites into him when he steps outside. He draws up and lets himself bite back. The cold retreats a couple of inches away. Enough not to nip at Crowley's exposed skin. If there had been any humans to watch, they would've scattered.

The angel at the other end of the veranda doesn't run.

Doesn't even see Crowley. He's looking in the opposite direction, toward the garden, and after a moment of stillness Aziraphale steps off the wooden deck and into the grass. He's wringing his hands as he walks, fussing with that ring. The snow is only a scattered handful of flakes. Not enough to trouble either of them.

Crowley has Christmas Eve plans tomorrow and he knows what people say about threes. Well, he's not going to have Aziraphale ruin a third party for him. Time to get this over with.

***

Azirapale walks through the garden until he finds an arched trellis that leads into a sitting area. There's an empty pedestal fountain there, with a thin layer of snow gathering in the bowl. Aziraphale touches his fingertips to the stone. The snow melts, expands, fills the fountain and then runs through it.

And that is distracting enough that it takes him a moment to register Crowley's presence behind him. Like a flicker of flame.

Crowley doesn't speak. Only about seventy years have passed, which is nothing, and it's as if a hole in Aziraphale's world has been filled in. It was never like that before. Of course before he'd always expected Crowley to come back. It had never been a surprise.

Trying to keep his voice light, Aziraphale says, "I didn't expect you to follow me out here. Don't think I can get into much trouble in a garden."

Crowley makes one of his wordless noises. This one sounds something halfway between amused and astonished. Aziraphale turns around. Crowley is backlit by the manor and half covered in shadows from the greenery. His glasses are an opaque black. Aziraphale expects him to take that statement and run with it, but he doesn't.

Instead Crowley says, like he's said a dozen Christmases before, "You don't get invited to the right parties, angel."

Apparently Aziraphale's world had another Crowley-shaped hole in it, because it fills in at the sound of Crowley saying that. But Crowley would hate being told that hearing him insult Aziraphale's Christmas rituals _is_ one of Aziraphale's Christmas rituals, although less frequently indulged than a mince pie on the 25th.

"I've been to some," he says.

Crowley considers him for a long moment. "That how you meet Osgood?"

"No." Aziraphale fidgets. "We were trying to buy the same bottle of wine."

Snorting, Crowley slinks forward. He walks directly up to Aziraphale, who can feel his eyes get wide. At the last second Crowley moves to the right. His red velvet gown brushes against Aziraphale's leg and swishes as Crowley spins and settles himself onto a bench. The stone must be ice cold but he doesn't seem to notice.

Aziraphale watches water run through the fountain. It isn't actually loud enough to mask anything they might say to each other here. But he also doubts anyone would be lurking in a garden in the dark, in the snow, simply to listen in on them.

"I had the impression that you were hoping not to see me again."

Crowley rests an elbow on his knee so he can put his chin in his hand. It makes some of his hair shift forward over his shoulder. "Was it the snide comments?"

"You are the one who insisted that walls have ears. You could have simply." Aziraphale stops. Swallows. "You could have simply pretended not to know me."

"That," Crowley drawls, "is rich. All I did was say hello."

"You could have said 'nice to meet you.' Like Venice, or Lisbon."

It would have been easy that way. Aziraphale would have excused himself. Found some other corner of the party to hover in. Everything would have been fine and Aziraphale could have … kept an eye on things. From afar.

"You're the one who asked me what I was doing out in public like I shouldn't have been there."

Aziraphale gives him a look. "I was surprised."

Crowley sits up. His hands disturb a wafer-thin layer of snow when he touches them to the bench. "You weren't worried I did anything to myself, Aziraphale."

Something squeezes around what passes for a heart in Aziraphale's Earthly body. "How could you possibly know that?"

There is one creature that can go to ground more effectively than a demon, and that's a snake. In Heaven there is a niche for Aziraphale as the Principality still conducting an extension of his duties from Eden. Keeping tabs on Crowley is one of the things that's helped him justify his full-time presence on Earth. And for many years all Aziraphale had to fulfill those duties was wait, and look to his left.

In the grand scheme of things seventy years is nothing but an eyeblink. But after their last discussion…

"News would've filtered down. Heaven would've thrown some kind of party if they thought you'd vanquished the Serpent of Eden for good. And you would've had to report it, right? Or else done some Tempting for yourself to thwart all on your own."

Aziraphale glares. He _had_ looked. He'd tried to check in. But finding a safe distance to watch Crowley's townhouse had only shown him that someone else had moved in.

"Probably they would've even promoted you." Crowley's mouth is quirked in a thin smile.

"That is not funny." The snow has begun to fall harder. By all rights Aziraphale should be shivering but instead his face is so hot he's positive it's red.

Crowley brushes snow off his dress and stands. "Where else do y'think I could've gotten my hands on you-know-what, anyway? Popped into a church shop and taken some? Paid some altar boy to snag a cup?"

"I wouldn't know," Aziraphale says. His voice is pitched. "I didn't know. I still don't understand why you even wanted it."

"Want," Crowley corrects.

"Crowley!" Another squeeze in his chest. "You can't promise me that you- That it won't be used for-"

Crowley groans. "It's. Not. For. That."

"Fine," Aziraphale snaps. He takes a deep breath at the look that flashes over Crowley's face. Anger? Startlement? It's gone before Aziraphale can read it. And before he can squash the words down he follows that up with, "Fine. Then it's all under the bridge, isn't it? Shouldn't it be?"

"Nothing's changed, Aziraphale."

Oh. Oh, Aziraphale hadn't actually expected him to say, out loud-

Crowley snaps his fingers and there's an empty champagne glass sitting on the edge of the fountain.

Oh.

"Nothing's changed." This time, Crowley's voice is flat. "Has it?"

It isn't as if it would be difficult. Aziraphale could scoop up some of that water right now and bless it. It would have snowmelt in it, but it would be holy water. Straight from an angel. The holiest. Of course then he'd have to pour it into another container entirely or Crowley would pick up the damp glass and be obliterated from the fingers up.

Aziraphale stares at the glass. When Crowley passes by him this time, he leaves an arms-length gap.

"This isn't fair," Aziraphale says.

Underneath the trellis, framed at either shoulder by blocks of shadow and his face lit up with chandelier glitz, Crowley stops. He turns his head just enough that one lens of his glasses is all golden light and the other is night black. The black feathers in his fascinator look bright and one red curl has spilled to hang over his forehead. His expression is unreadable and he looks all the world like. Like.

Aziraphale swallows. Angelic visions were never his department.

"I don't understand," Aziraphale says. It feels like he is facing into a strong wind. "Why you are asking me to walk in a world where I'm the one who. Who handed you the thing that could end you forever. Would you light a candle with hellfire, if I asked?"

Crowley presses his lips together.

"I thought as much."

"You wouldn't ask."

"And I _don't_ understand why you make that sound like a problem."

"It's insurance. Not for me, for u… Aziraphale. I need you to take me at my word," Crowley says, slowly. As if Aziraphale is pulling the words off his tongue. None of them make any sense. It's been so long, and Crowley still isn't making sense.

Aziraphale inhales. Sucks cold air into his lungs. Opens his eyes wide, looking at the slowly-frosting grass, so the cold will touch him and bring him down. He snaps his fingers to vanish the glass because he can't keep looking at it. 

Venom gone from his voice, Crowley murmurs, "I don't know what else to say, angel."

"You can't promise me that nothing would happen. I'm not handing you something that would destroy you." It's so hard to say, when it could make Crowley run away again. But it doesn't. It doesn't even make him bite. Crowley waves his hand and lets it fall to his side. The enameled snake wrapped around his wrist is a coil of shadow over his skin. It feels colder but there's still no wind. Just winter, piling up around them. They stand there and neither of them speak.

Neither of them leave, either.

Snow dusts Crowley's shoulders. His hair. His lashes.

"My dear," Aziraphale sighs at last, tugging off his coat before he can think of a convincing argument not to. Crowley goes very still, lips parted, when Aziraphale closes what space is left between them. Aziraphale brings the coat up and drapes it across Crowley's bare shoulders. "I know you say it isn't a bother. You just look so cold."

He doesn't touch Crowley. But it has been so long without news at all, and Aziraphale _had_ thought… It wasn't as if anyone would have told Aziraphale if Hell had taken back one of its own.

Crowley reaches up and grabs the lapels of Aziraphale's coat with one hand, tugging it closed over his chest.

"Shall I leave you with Osgood and Jerry, then?"

After a moment, Crowley says, "Yes."

***

Dinner has already started by the time they get back inside. Osgood and Jerry fit 'Vera' seamlessly between them and Aziraphale makes his excuses. Missing the meal when that was half of what coaxed Aziraphale out of the house in the first place is really too bad, but most of the diners have already opened their crackers and on his way out of the room Aziraphale hears several jokes he doesn't think belong in polite company. Also, he has concerns about whoever crafted some of those paper crowns.

The person at the door hands him a gift bag with a personal-sized fruitcake in it, though, so the evening could have ended more poorly.

There are several cab drivers already parked outside waiting for the party to let out for the night. He climbs in the first one and directs the driver to the bookshop.

It isn't until he's looking at the stand by the door that he realizes he left his coat resting on Crowley's shoulders. He thinks an uncharitable _damn._ But it was his own fault. It's just ridiculous, leaving clothing behind for the second time in a week. At this rate he doesn't deserve to get it back.

He sits up the rest of the night with a book and by morning he's polished off several cups of tea and the fruitcake.

Later that week, on Christmas morning, a messenger says he's been paid to knock at the bookshop door until Aziraphale answers. It must be true because the man sticks it out on the front step for some time. Aziraphale only answers the door after he absolutely cannot take it anymore and because it is, after all, not in the Christmas spirit to leave someone standing on the doorstep indefinitely, even a potential customer with awful timing.

The messenger hands him a box. Aziraphale gives him a tip and bustles back inside, shutting the door on the cold. Ankle-deep drifts of snow still line the street. Only someone with a compelling reason would pay enough for a messenger to step out into this weather.

Aziraphale makes himself a cup of hot chocolate before he opens the box. Inside he finds his coat, carefully folded and lined with paper.

There's no note.

The next time he puts it on, he catches a breath of Crowley's perfume. And the time after that. And the time after that. The fourth time, he thinks the perfume must have all faded, but he tells himself it hasn't.

He wears the coat shortly after New Year's, when he meets Osgood and Daphne for breakfast. Breakfast is actually at eight in the morning, which Aziraphale appreciates, even if the only reason for their early rising is that they're boarding Osgood's ship to return to America later that day.

"We had a splendid Christmas," Osgood tells him. "There were fireworks!"

"I don't think there were supposed to be fireworks," Daphne says. She's looking at her black pudding with some skepticism. "The people in the pantomime sure seemed surprised."

Aziraphale trades Daphne her pudding for his toast, since he did leave two parties she invited him to. "I hope you got to see the end of the show."

"The fireworks came just as Cinderella entered the ball, of course they were on purpose," Osgood says.

"The pumpkin coach ran off like it wasn't expecting fireworks to shoot from the roof," Daphne says. "And it kept going all the way down the street."

"The players played on." Osgood waves his fork. "Yes, we did see the end of the show, Alistair. Prince Charming returned for his Cinderella and swept her up. I was impressed, the Prince seemed a spindly sort of lady."

Daphne swallows a bite of toast. "You lift me when we dance."

As the waiter clears their table Daphne writes their forwarding address on a scrap of paper for Aziraphale. They already have the directions for the shop, of course. She tells him they'll try to send him a card next year. Aziraphale kisses her cheek goodbye and gives Osgood a handshake. He has the feeling he won't be hearing rumors of any more Fielding divorces.

Next Christmas Aziraphale completely forgets to send them a card. The holiday just sneaks up on him.

He does put a postcard in the mail for New Year's, but it's only because they sent him something for the holiday. Music made by one of their friends. He puts the record on when he comes downstairs Christmas morning and listens to a woman called Sugar Kane - odd name, lovely voice - sing carols. Her rendition of 'Love Came Down at Christmas' is splendid.

Aziraphale doesn't see Crowley again until there are bombs falling on London.

The way Crowley drives is almost more terrifying. The Bentley, which somehow survives the ordeal, smells faintly of a new perfume.

Crowley stays to drink and only leaves when the sun starts to come up.

Aziraphale has no plans that day, but as soon as the door shuts, he picks up his coat. In the privacy and reassuring shadow of the bookshop he buries his face in the fabric. It smells of Crowley's perfume. Aziraphale spends a small miracle to keep the scent there for a few months.

If the church hadn't taught him that he was already gone, this truly would have sunk him.

***

Years later, when Crowley says _I know what you smell like,_ it stops what passes for a heart in an angel's Earthly body.

Of course they have bigger things to worry about. The hellhound. Averting Armageddon. That's the reason Aziraphale can't bring himself to comment on it.

Eventually Crowley says, "Hope it wasn't too constricting, wearing my body."

"You aren't that kind of snake."

Crowley grins at him and his teeth look sharp in the low light of his flat. Where they are drinking together for the second time in the span of a week. For the first time, free of wondering when someone is going to come after them for it. Actually, they are in bed. Crowley is sitting with his back against the headboard, his legs spread on the shiny black sheets. He's kicked off his shoes but left on his socks. Aziraphale is sitting cross-legged at the other end of the mattress similarly sans shoes and also without his jacket.

The bed is the only soft thing in the entire flat. That's why they're sitting there. Aziraphale could ask about a couch, or he could make one himself. But he doesn't want to.

"Hope mine wasn't too… roomy," Aziraphale says.

"Ahh, angel." Crowley lets his head rest on the wall behind him. His sunglasses are on the end table on the left side of the bed. "Not how I would describe it."

"You smelled nice," Aziraphale adds.

Because he's maybe a little drunk. Because he maybe wants to.

Crowley's pupils go wide.

Aziraphale leans down and puts his glass on the floor, next to where he left his shoes. Then he shifts onto his knees and awkwardly crawls up the mattress. Crowley doesn't move. Since he's dead center on the bed and his legs are still spread, that means Aziraphale has to tuck himself up against Crowley's side to keep from tipping off the edge of the mattress. There is just a hint of perfume left on his skin.

Crowley inhales. His lips are parted.

Hesitantly, Aziraphale puts his head on Crowley's shoulder. Crowley has taken off his jacket, too, and so Aziraphale's cheek is on the soft fabric of his shirt. "Do you remember that party, in that place with the fountain?" he asks, softly. "In the 30s-"

"1929," Crowley murmurs. He still hasn't moved.

"I left you with my coat and you sent it back to me for Christmas." Aziraphale ignores the tiny note of protest that sounds from Crowley's throat at _for._ "It smelled like your perfume. And later, when you began offering me lifts in your car…"

"Is that why you put up with my driving?" Crowley asks. He tries to make it sound sarcastic. But his hand has drifted over to rest on Aziraphale's thigh. Aziraphale covers it with his own.

"It's a benefit," Aziraphale admits. He runs his thumb along Crowley's knuckles, and Crowley's fingers twitch. "I suspect now you were trying to tell me something about 'our side' in that garden. I'm sorry I wouldn't listen."

Crowley squeezes his hand. "Didn't leave me in the cold, anyway."

"Not that time." Aziraphale lifts his head.

Crowley turns to look at him.

Aziraphale leans up and kisses him. Because he's maybe a little drunk. For a moment Crowley is still but when he starts kissing back, his mouth hot on Aziraphale's, he is so careful not to bear down. Not to push Aziraphale against the headboard or the bed. So Aziraphale leans up. Chases another kiss. Crowley's hand tightens on Aziraphale's thigh, and Aziraphale twists their fingers together. Because he very much wants to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 The first verse goes, _The angel Gabriel from heaven came, / His wings as drifted snow, his eyes as flame; "All hail", said he, "thou lowly maiden Mary, / Most highly favoured lady." Gloria!_ Aziraphale happens to know that Mary's reaction to this was not to meekly bow her head, as a later verse suggests. Also, he can't imagine comparing Gabriel's eyes to flames.  [return to text]
> 
> 2 'Jesus Christ the Apple Tree' contains the lyric _I'll sit and eat this truth divine / It cheers my heart like spirit'l wine._ Crowley goes into a hissing fit about symbolism, serpents, and hypocrisy whenever it plays. He is relieved when it falls off the radio charts. Aziraphale is put out, for several reasons.  [return to text]


End file.
